


The Tale of Patrick's Pub

by goddammit_charlie



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, The Gang Cracks The Liberty Bell, but they're young, except they're not at high school because it's like 1762, sort of high school au as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3994036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammit_charlie/pseuds/goddammit_charlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a prequel to The Gang Cracks The Liberty Bell, the Gang meet as teenagers in the 1760's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of Patrick's Pub

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pigeonstatueconundrum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonstatueconundrum/gifts).



> I know nothing about American history so if the glaring historical inaccuracies are going to bother you then I can only apologise. I'm imagining the gang to be between 16-18 years old here.

"And don't you dare come back!"

Young Charles Kelly flinched at the angry shouts that drifted through the warm evening. The lady of the house was known for her tempestuous nature, and rumours of witchcraft and devilry were always passing through the servants' quarters in furtive whispers. Charlie tried not to take part in these speculations, generally keeping his distance from his fellow servants altogether. He preferred to eat and sleep in the barn where he worked, surrounded by the calmly munching horses, nestling among bales of sweet hay, away from the haughty eyes of the prim footmen and neat-frocked maids who sneered at his grubby clothes and held their noses when he passed by. 

He looked up from his work and laid aside his shovel as a rotund figure entered the barn, breathing heavily.

"Good evening, sir," he mumbled, raising a hand to tip his hat, finding his head bare (of course, he'd used his hat to make a warm nest for a clutch of baby rats he'd found earlier), sheepishly tugging at his shaggy hair instead. Mr Franklin Reynolds, master of the house, squinted at him blearily.

"Saddle me a horse, lad!" he demanded, swaying on his feet. His shirt was rumpled and untucked, his checks as red as his nose, and he too seemed to have misplaced his hat. Charlie nodded and hurried for a saddle, climbing on an overturned bucket to reach the horse's back. As he buckled the bridle, his master waddled up to the horse and made several grunting attempts to lift his foot to the stirrup. Even sober he was too short and round to come anywhere close to reaching the stirrup, and in his unsteady state he stumbled and swore until eventually giving in and demanding a leg-up. Charlie hesitated nervously.

"Um, I'm sorry sir, but are you... well enough? I wouldn't want you to fall..."

"Don't be ridiculous, boy! Now do as you're told before I find someone less insolent to do your job!" 

Charlie ducked his head and obediently helped his master into the saddle, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to prevent him from sliding straight off the other side. Frank pulled himself upright with a groan and picked up the reins. 

"If my whore wife asks for me, you can tell her I've gone to find myself a nice young girl who knows how to treat a man with respect!" he slurred, spittle flecking his unshaven chin, and he rode out into the night wobbling alarmingly with every step.

Charlie watched him for a moment and then ran to fetch another saddle. He couldn't possibly let his master go off alone in such a drunken state - if he made it out of his own driveway without falling off his horse, he would surely be robbed blind at the very least. He readied an old pony and leapt aboard, trotting out of the barn and following the sound of Mr Reynold's tuneless singing.

He followed his master unnoticed through the Philadelphia streets as they wound their way towards the seedier end of town. Occasionally Frank would stop to leer at a girl and offer his hand to help her up onto his horse, but they always shook their heads and turned away. Charlie could hear him grumbling to himself and swearing at the ungrateful girls. Eventually they came to a stop outside a pub and Frank slithered down from the saddle, threw the reins over a post and staggered inside for a drink. 

Charlie hopped off his pony and wondered what to do next. He supposed he ought to leave Frank to pass out under a table as he often did - the barman usually had someone deliver him home in the early hours of the morning, slung snoring across the front of their saddle, for which Mrs Reynolds would give them a cold sneer and a gleaming nickel for their time. He mulled this over for a while. A nickel would be a nice supplement to his meagre wage... why shouldn't he be the one getting rewarded for returning Frank home? He decided to stay and wait for his master after all.

The bar looked crowded and warm, and Charlie decided to head inside and find an unobtrusive corner in which to wait. He perched on a three-legged stool and peered wide-eyed at the merriment around him. The room was thick with smoke, noise and the heat of a hundred grimy men drinking off the long day's work. Laughing women flirted and joked, shrieking playfully as they were pulled into a lap or feigning prudish horror at the suggestions whispered to them across the table. In one corner a group of serious-faced men huddled around a card game - in another a toothless old drunkard grinned over an accordion, wheezing out discordant shrieks in no recognisable tune. 

He was so overwhelmed by noisy atmosphere that he didn't see the young men approaching him until they plonked themselves down at the table with him and one of them clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.

"Charles Kelly! How are you? God, you stink!" 

Charlie jumped and looked at the skinny, dark-haired boy who'd intruded on him.

"Oh, hi MacDonald... how're you doing?" MacDonald was a childhood friend, growing up next door to Charlie in the ramshackle dockland slum where they'd both been raised. Charlie hadn't seen him since taking the job as stable boy at the Reynolds house.

"I'm good, I'm good... hey, you must know Dennis!" 

He indicated his companion and Charlie took a proper look at the other boy for the first time. The young man was tall and gangly, with smooth pale skin and a fine, haughty face that looked out of place in this dive bar, as did his expensive clothes and clean fingernails. Charlie gaped and turned back to Mac.

"Is that _Dennis Reynolds?_ " 

The tall boy reddened and scowled, glancing around the room to ensure nobody had heard Charlie's exclamation.

"Sshh! Don't yell it for the whole bar to hear!" he hissed. Charlie's cheeks flushed and he lowered his head by subservient instinct. He'd seen the young Master Reynolds once or twice, usually storming around the grounds of his family's estate with a thunderous expression, but he hadn't been around for a while. Word had it that his father had kicked him out for bringing a prostitute to the house, which seemed particularly hypocritical given his own proclivities. Mac grinned and nudged him in the ribs.

"Would you ever have imagined me hanging out with a Reynolds? I'm in high society, bro!"

Dennis, red-faced again, snorted and shook his head.

"You will never be high society, MacDonald. I just happen to be slumming it for a while until my mother talks some sense into my father, and you're the only scumbag so desperate to climb up a few social tiers that I didn't think you'd stab me in my sleep."

"He's crashing with me until his dad lets him back in the house," Mac interpreted, beaming.

"Mr Reynolds is here," Charlie warned them in a low voice.

"Uh yeah, I just introduced you to him..."

"No Mac, I mean Mr Reynolds senior. Dennis's dad."

Dennis slid as low as he could in his chair and shielded his face with his hand.

"Shit!" he muttered. "Where is he? Has he seen me?"

Charlie scanned the room as nonchalantly as he could. He soon spotted Frank perched on a barstool, stumpy legs dangling, vying fruitlessly for the attention of the barmaid.

"He's at the bar. He's got his back to us."

Dennis shuffled around to turn his back to the bar, keeping his head lowered.

"Should we get out of here?" Mac asked.

"He looks like he'll be passed out any minute now," added Charlie.

"I think it'll just draw more attention if I get up and leave. Let's stay and wait for him to pass out," Dennis decided.

As the only one Mr Reynolds definitely wouldn't recognise, Mac was elected to go and buy the drinks. The three of them drank the stale beer and chatted, the two old friends catching up while Dennis listened in and occasionally voiced his disbelief or disgust for the way they lived.

"You sleep in my parents' barn? Like actually in the barn, with the horses? No wonder you stink."

"Well, not in the actual stables - I usually sleep in the hay loft above them," Charlie explained defensively. 

"Aren't there like, rats and shit?"

"Well yeah, but they don't bother me. It's warm and dry, and I don't have to share a room with anyone. Besides, I quite like rats."

Dennis curled his lip and turned away.

"There's no rats in my place Den!" Mac assured him enthusiastically. "Poppins is the best ratter, they won't come near the place with him around."

"I think Poppins might actually _be_ a giant rat," Dennis replied with a sneer.

As the beers kept coming (funded by Dennis, the only one with more than a penny in his pockets), the boys became more raucous and Charlie found himself having more fun than he'd had in years. His sides ached from laughing, and even Dennis was grinning and cracking jokes. Eventually they noticed that the barmaid was sweeping up the soiled sawdust from beneath the tables around them, and they looked around to find that only themselves and handful of collapsed drunks remained in the bar. Charlie looked for Frank and saw him curled up under a table, snoring heavily.

"I'd better go," he said. "I'm going to take Mr Reynolds back and get paid."

"I wouldn't hold out high hopes for a reward if I were you," Dennis remarked. "My mom has been kicking him out the house every other night lately - she might not want him back."

"Hey, Dennis, hey..." Mac put his hand on Dennis's shoulder and leaned in to mumble in his ear while Dennis turned his head away from the gust of beer breath, "Dennis, tell me, is your mom really a witch?" 

Dennis smirked knowingly, staring at Mac with hooded eyes. Mac gazed back at him with a sloppy grin.

"I couldn't possibly answer that," the young Reynolds answered coolly. "But I'll tell you this much: _if_ there were such thing as witches, and _if_ my mom was anything of the kind... I'd advise you to remember that bad blood is hereditary." 

With this he grinned, patted Mac smartly on the cheek and pulled away from his grasp. 

"Come on," he said to Charlie, "I'll help you get the old man up on his horse while MacDonald finds his sea legs."

As Charlie was setting off to make his way home, riding the old pony and leading Frank's horse with its unconscious owner draped across the saddle, Mac stumbled out to wave goodbye. 

"We should definitely do this again sometime!" he called. 

"Yeah, absolutely! We should meet back here another night," Charlie agreed.

"What's this place even called, anyway?" Mac turned to squint up at the sign, and after a moment Dennis sighed and read it for him.

"Patrick's. Patrick's Public House."


End file.
